Toronto-based company had developed a highly efficient method of obtaining acetone from the distillation of wood. This chemical was a key component in the creation of cordite, a propellant used in the manufacture of artillery shells. For many, including Peuchen, the prospect of a major conflict erupting in Europe was both bad news (for obvious reasons) and good news, because if war broke out, millions of artillery shells would be needed — and tremendous quantities of cordite would be needed to propel those shells toward the enemy lines. Companies in the acetone-producing business would not only be regarded as patriotic, but they would reap great financial rewards for their stockholders as well.
Lacking large wooded areas (most having already been cut down), it was painfully obvious that England would have to import the necessary acetone from countries where huge forests made it easy to produce the chemical in large quantities. As a member of the British Empire, Canada was an ideal choice, and Peuchen managed sprawling lots of timber from which his company produced huge quantities of acetone. Tankers would cross the Atlantic carrying all the acetone that the Mother Country would need.
The Cunard Line’s “no-frills” ocean liner Carpathia rescued 705 victims of the Titanic disaster that occurred more than one hundred years ago.
It was this business opportunity that resulted in the major visiting his business contacts in England, “just in case.” Following the meetings, Peuchen booked his return passage on the maiden voyage of the world’s newest and most luxurious ocean liner. He planned to be back in his Jarvis Street home shortly after Titanic docked in New York on April 17, 1912.
But everything changed at 11:40 on the evening of April 14, 1912, when the giant liner struck an iceberg. Less than three hours later she slipped under the North Atlantic’s icy waters.
This Toronto newspaper ad ran in February 1912, two months before the Titanic struck an iceberg. In a strange twist, both the ill-fated Titanic and the Carpathia — the ship that raced to aid Titanic’s passengers and crew — appeared in the same advertisement.
But if the major thought his troubles were over when he stepped ashore, boy was he wrong. One of the first things he did when confronted by an eager press was to announce to one and all that the disaster was as a result of (in Peuchen’s own words in the Toronto Globe) “gross carelessness.” He went on to condemn the ship’s captain: “[He] knew we were going into an ice field — why would he remain dining in the saloon when such danger was about?”
His criticism of Captain Smith came back to haunt him when it was pointed out that of the hundreds of male passengers who drowned, he was one of very few to survive. Peuchen argued that because of his expertise as a member of Toronto’s Royal Canadian Yacht Club he was actually ordered to help with the passengers in Lifeboat #6.
His explanation fell on many deaf ears, however, and for the rest of his life his experience on that terrible night continued to haunt him. Peuchen died in December 1929, and is buried in Mount Pleasant Cemetery in Toronto.
April 18, 2010
The Man Behind Sunnybrook
Over the years, generations of Torontonians have been the recipients of a variety of parks, large and small, many of which have been donated by citizens eager to enhance the green spaces throughout the city. Their actions have made Toronto what it is today, “a city within a park.”
One of the largest of these donations took place in May 1928 when Alice Kilgour, the widow of prominent city businessman, sportsman, and benefactor Joseph Kilgour, presented the city with the deed to the couple’s 70.8-hectare (175-acre) Sunnybrook Farm.
Aerial view of Sunnybrook Hospital as it looked not long after it opened as a military hospital in 1948. The intersection at the top left of the image is Bayview Avenue and Blythwood Road.
Joseph Kilgour, the landlord of the sprawling Sunnybrook Farm, seen here with his horse Twilight.
City of Toronto Archives.
Joseph and his brother Robert were in the paper and cardboard manufacturing business. One of their products was the highly popular “snap action” paper bag, the kind that the user was able to open wide with a simple flick of the wrist. It made the boys millionaires.
To honour the family that provided the land for a public park and (later) a hospital, the Leaside town council suggested in 1928 that Bayview Avenue be renamed Kilgour Avenue. The name was never changed, but a small street in the area was recently christened Kilgour Road.
The large Kilgour Brothers factory was located at 21–23 Wellington Street West and was one of the few buildings in the downtown area of the city to have its own sprinkler system, which was supplied with water from two giant storage tanks on the roof. Although the structure suffered minor water and smoke damage during the Great Toronto Fire in April 1904, it was this protection that prevented the conflagration from getting a hold on nearby buildings on the west side of Yonge Street. Had that happened, the acting fire chief was convinced that the fire, though disastrous, would have been much, much worse.
In 1909, Joseph, like many other Toronto men of substance, purchased a large parcel of land out in the county on the east side of the First Concession east of Yonge and just north of Eglinton Avenue. Covering two hundred acres and stretching farther east to today’s Leslie Street, it was here that he built a beautiful residence, modern farm buildings, and, being a talented horseman, a collection of well-appointed stables. (Several of the stables were used for years by the Toronto Police Mounted Unit before they moved to the CNE’s Horse Palace. They now house a private riding stable.)
Sadly, Joseph Kilgour was only able to enjoy his suburban residence for sixteen years before passing away in early 1925 while on vacation in Florida.
After some deliberation, his widow decided to honour her husband’s memory by donating their farm to the citizens of Toronto. And so it was that on May 9, 1928, even though the property was technically outside the city limits of the day, Toronto’s inventory of parks grew by 175 acres. One condition she imposed was that the property was to remain a park, forever.
So impressed were civic officials with the Kilgour’s donation that they suggested that Bayview Avenue be renamed Kilgour Avenue. For unknown reasons, however, that never happened, but in recent years a small street just south of the new CNIB headquarters was named Kilgour. Better than nothing, I guess.
In 1943, and with a world war raging, officials managing the Kilgour estate approved the construction of a much-needed military hospital on a portion of the park. Today, that hospital has retained part of the Sunnybrook Farm title in its name.
May 9, 2010
Paying Homage to the Temple
In the ongoing race to present the city with the ultimate in condominium towers, a 2010 announcement trumpeted the news that the nation’s tallest residential building, a seventy-five-storey, 931-suite skyscraper to be known as the Aura would soon
